


Sunday

by sassmaster_tiresias



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, FIx It, Fluff, M/M, just sort of...different, not really cause it doesn't need fixing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassmaster_tiresias/pseuds/sassmaster_tiresias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sunday.</p>
<p>It is a nice day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday

It’s Sunday. Crowley is making bacon and eggs. He’s not really sure why, he’s never really been one for breakfast, and he usually goes for something lighter when the mood does hit him. But this morning (although it was really more like early afternoon), he woke up drenched in sunlight and with an inexplicable fullness in his chest that he decided the interpret as “bacon and eggs.”

They were waiting in the fridge when he slipped out of the bedroom and shuffled into the kitchen. He took a previously unused frying pan from the rack above the island and fiddled with the stove until he figured out how to turn it on. At some point, he thought a tea kettle into existence. He’s always preferred coffee himself, but something about this morning just feels like tea.

There’s a yawn from the hallway that leads to the bedroom.

Ah, yes. That’s it.

There comes the scrape of one of the island stools being pulled out. Crowley hears Aziraphale’s elbows hit the marble and glances back over his shoulder. The angel is wearing a black silk robe. He hasn’t got his glasses on yet. His groggy eyes drift over to Crowley and a sleepy smile slides across his face.

“Good morning, my dear.”

Crowley can’t stop his own smile, but hides it by turning back to the stove. “Morning, angel.” He pokes at the bacon. “Sleep well?”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hums. “Certainly. I believe I’m finally beginning to understand why you slept through the 1800s.”

Crowley chuckles. “I still can’t believe you don’t have a bed in that bookshop.”

He can practically feel Aziraphale’s expression drop. “Well even if I did, there wouldn’t be much left of it now.”

There’s silence aside from the sizzling of the bacon. It’s done. Crowley slides it and the eggs out onto two plates. He shoots a glare at the kettle and it whistles obediently. He pours it into a mug that’s suddenly bigger than it was before. It brews instantly. He sets everything in front of Aziraphale.

“’M sorry, Aziraphale.” Sitting down across from the angel with his own plate, Crowley averts his eyes.

Aziraphale reaches across the island and pats Crowley’s hand. “Nothing for you to apologize for, dear.” He draws his hand back to pick up his fork, stabs his eggs. The yolk bubbles out, spilling across his bacon. “How bad was it?” he asks, timid.  
Crowley bumps the fork out of Aziraphale’s hand and squeezes his fingers tightly. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

For a moment, it looks like something sparkles on Aziraphale’s cheeks. It’s gone the next second.

“We can go over later, if you like,” Crowley offers. “There might be something to be salvaged.”

Finally, Aziraphale meets Crowley’s eyes. “Thank you, Crowley. I’d like that.”

Forty five minutes later, they trek down the stairs to the ground floor of Crowley’s building. The demon’s fingers twitch against his thigh, longing to twirl keys he doesn’t have. Before they’ve even stepped out the door, Crowley is looking towards the end of the block.

“I think there’s a tube station at the end of the block. I don’t know what lines, but we’ll figure it—” Aziraphale grabs his arm in a vice grip and he cuts off. His head whips around to look at his partner. “What is it, angel?”

“Crowley, look,” Aziraphale hisses, wide eyes trained directly ahead.

At the curb, the Bentley is parked. It shines like new, windows glinting cheerily back at them.

Awestruck and hopeful, Crowley slides the hand that’s not restrained by Aziraphale into his pocket. He pulls out his keys. The angel and demon look at each other, enormous grins splitting their faces. Aziraphale’s hand slides down into Crowley’s.

Aziraphale will deny the screech that escapes him at the sight of his shop, fully intact. Crowley won’t confirm it, but he will stand behind Aziraphale with a telling smirk.

The angel bursts through the door, eyes alight, and his demon follows after him with an unabashed smile. Aziraphale flits joyfully from shelf to shelf as Crowley wanders back to lean against the counter. Eventually, Aziraphale dashes back to Crowley and takes the demon’s face between his hands.

“It’s all here, Crowley. Every last book.”

Crowley has as little control over his smile as he does over the hand the drifts to rest against Aziraphale’s soft waist. “Of course it is, angel.”

Fingertips against Crowley’s jaw, Aziraphale drags him in, pressing their foreheads together. Laughter burbles from the angel’s lips and he squeezes his eyes shut, not bothering to miracle away the tears this time. Crowley can’t look away.

Before long, Aziraphale has run off again, gushing about some book that wasn’t there before. Crowley drags his favorite armchair (just as soft as ever) out from the back room and settles in, still smiling.

It’s Sunday.

It is a nice day.


End file.
